Destroy Rock and Roll

RCA; 2006

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Isn't this fun: Destroy Rock and Roll, the first full-length album from Scotland's Myles Macinnes, is just now available in the United States, along with a trio of inessential bonuses. Those of you who are already familiar with Mylo-- dance-music enthusiasts, British people-- are probably over it already: The singles from this LP have been commercial staples since their original vinyl releases, absolute sure shots for making people happy. Plenty of folks have already completed the process of loving them, getting tired of hearing them all the time, and then filing them away as classics. Lucky for those of you who haven't had that experience yet, there are reasons for the rush: This music packs the same exuberant gut-level joy as Daft Punk's "One More Time", Basement Jaxx's "Romeo", and Outkast's "Hey Ya". Only, well, even easier than that. Mylo is like a dance-music Ramones: What he does isn't very complicated. Technically, he's not even very good at it. But that's all just part of the treat.

The title's misleading: Nothing gets destroyed here, and there's hardly a rough noise across this hour of music. Destroy Rock and Roll is electronic dance music, pure and simple. Mylo's tracks read a bit like a cross section of the genre's history. All the happiest tricks of each era-- disco groove, synth-pop melodies, house rush, downtempo foot-tapping, French filter sweeps, cut-rate Daft Punk, choppy edits-- sharing space. And yet this is anything but one of those big, bursting pastiche albums, packed with ideas and flailing everywhere at once. No, these tracks go in straight, simple lines, and they rarely take their eyes off whichever hooks grab you fastest. Don't count on the dance cognoscenti to approve of them: If anything, this is house music as Saturday-morning cartoon-- all bold lines inked in bright, primary colors.

That simplicity-- Dance Music for Dummies-- is a big part of what lets this collection feel so solid. From "Muscle Cars" to its terrific vocal reprise, tracks 3 through 11, just about every song is straight-ahead for-your-pleasure, clocking in under four minutes and hitting like a single straight through. The biggest, simplest treat is "Drop the Pressure", a bouncy cartoon-funk bassline paired with a thrilling vocoder freakout. The former's just Daft Punk circa Homework, and the latter's just Daft Punk circa Discovery, but you still can't help smiling when the vocal hook-- "Motherfucker's gonna drop the pressure"-- starts skipping up octaves and breaking down the vulgar bit. The other tracks pick specific dance vibes and play them up in the most charmingly obvious ways. "In My Arms" is slinky 80s pop emotion, complete with "Bette Davis Eyes" sample. "Guilty of Love" is synthpop too naïve and cheery for 90% of dancefloors on Earth, which Mylo seems too happy to care about. "Paris Four Hundred" does the obligatory neon-lit Autobahn-cruising stuff; "Rikki" tries stuttering house cut-up like Akufen (or Todd Edwards).

And as much as every one of these things comes across like a coloring book next to an oil painting, that's exactly what gives this record its dreamy charm-- even during its tamer lead-ups, which run Röyksopp, trip-hop, and Air through similar homemade Platonic-essence filters. And questions about how effective this kind of simplification can really be get answered by a one-two punch: "Otto's Journey", bouncing like nuts around wet, flickering synths, and the vocal cut of "Muscle Cars", which is as sleek, sexy, and quaintly unhip as its namesake. There isn't much in here that could be considered hip, or that shows technical skill. But there's a total gut-level joy, as if these were tracks made by an ecstatic, well-meaning kid who hadn't yet encountered the complicated concerns of the places people might actually dance to them. This is to dance what Art Brut is to rock: cheeky, charming, too straightforward to worry about style, ramming through the fundamentals as if pure enthusiasm is the most important part of making music.